Ashardio stepped into the Core of Reflection, and the world bent.
Not cracked. Not shattered. Bent—as if the very air remembered a shape it had not worn in centuries.
The walls, if they could be called that, shimmered like liquid parchment, flowing with lines of potential futures and unspoken outcomes. The Codex here did not dictate—it murmured. It hummed with regret, a sorrow so vast and subtle it felt like nostalgia for lives never lived.
He walked forward.
Every step left a ghost.
Versions of himself bled briefly into view—some burned, some broken, some triumphant. Some screaming. Some silent.
But only one remained.
It stood ahead of him, spine straight, hands folded behind his back like a statue carved from light. Identical in every way—face, voice, aura—but untouched by fracture. This version of Ashardio glowed with intact divinity, unmarred by rebellion.
"You shouldn't be here," it said calmly, without accusation.
Ashardio stopped.
For a breathless second, neither moved. They stared at each other—one a memory that became real, the other a reality that remembered too much.
"And yet," Ashardio said quietly, "here we are."
⸻
This other Ashardio had no shadow.
He didn't need one.
He was the flawless outcome—the Harmony's chosen son who never faltered, never questioned. The perfect Flame who upheld the Codex without compromise.
"I remember what I was meant to become," Ashardio muttered, circling the projection.
"I remember who they tried to shape me into."
The mirror version turned, eyes bright as polished scripture.
"Then you remember the price of disobedience."
Ashardio didn't answer.
Because he did. Not just in wounds or guilt—but in what he had lost. Kaelith. The Sequence. The purpose that once gave shape to everything.
"She would have died," Ashardio said softly. "And I would've let her."
The mirror stepped closer, calm as law.
"Yes. And the Codex would have remained whole. The Third Thread would never have awakened. Time would not bleed. And you… would not have become this."
A pause.
"This contradiction."
Ashardio clenched his fists. "I became something they didn't predict. That's not a flaw. That's freedom."
The mirror tilted its head. For the first time, a flicker of something else passed across its face—contempt? Or pity?
"Freedom?" it echoed. "You call this decay freedom?"
"Look around you. The Codex bleeds. The Architects lie scattered. The timelines collapse under your mercy. And still, you chase her. Still, you believe in a version of fate where no one pays."
⸻
Silence pressed between them, thick and suffocating. The Core of Reflection buzzed, its mirrored veins beginning to flicker—a sign of the Third Thread's influence creeping closer.
Ashardio stepped forward, closer than he dared. His reflection didn't move.
"And what are you, then? A monument to obedience? You'd watch a thousand Kaeliths die and still call it righteous."
"No," the mirror said evenly. "I wouldn't watch. I would act. I would burn the sacrifice with my own hands—because that is purpose. Not doubt. Not weakness masquerading as love."
The word hit like a blade.
Ashardio breathed deep.
"Then I am glad I was broken."
His reflection's face twitched—barely visible. But it was there. A fracture.
"You've doomed us all," it said at last.
"Then let it be my doom," Ashardio whispered. "Not hers."
⸻
The light shifted.
The mirror began to blur—its edges softening, its voice scattering into a dozen clashing timelines. The Third Thread was close now. Feeding. Watching.
Before it vanished completely, the reflection offered one final sentence, voice layered in something not quite human.
"When she forgets you… when she chooses the path that ends you… I will be waiting."
Then it dissolved, and the Core pulsed red.
Ashardio stood alone in the reflection chamber, but he felt no victory. Only weight. The weight of what he had chosen… and the truth that the Codex never forgets a debt unpaid.
He turned away.
It was time to find Kaelith.
Before the Third Thread found her first.